


A Different Kind of Christmas

by OffYourBird



Series: The Jumpverse [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Dramedy, Holidays, Light-Hearted, Multi, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 04:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13451028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/pseuds/OffYourBird
Summary: Inconvenient demons, ripped fishnets, and a harried Giles abound. It must be Christmastime with Liz and Elly. Join them for a century and a half of holidays in this special Jumpverse one-shot. (Fair warning: if you haven’t read the previous installments of the Jumpverse, this will likely not make very much sense.)





	A Different Kind of Christmas

_December 24, 1885: Paris_

“We’re playing with fire here, luv,” Spike muttered as they slipped into a back pew at the local Notre Dame. It was, in fact, the  _real_  Notre Dame (although Spike just rolled his eyes when she called it that), as it turned out the idea of Notre Dame wasn’t actually that special; it was just a kind of Catholic church. To that effect, there were a ton of Notre Dames throughout France. But this one was the real deal: the Notre Dame de Paris. And it was stunningly, breathtakingly gorgeous.

And packed to the brim on Christmas eve.

Buffy just shrugged at her husband (and, oh, did it still feel weird to call him that, but not in a bad way) as she indelicately used her full bustle to shove her way into a pew, her very ladylike smile disarming the gentleman who ended up being shoved.

“It’s traditional,” she murmured, eyes appropriately fixed on the priest in front of the altar.

She could feel Spike’s disbelieving gaze. “You don’t even know Latin.”

“Well, it sounds pretty.”

There was a short silence, followed by an exasperated, “Bloody impossible woman.”

Buffy held back a smile with supreme effort, but Spike must’ve caught it anyway, because he grumbled, “Think this is funny, do you? Just wait until you have a pile of dust for a husband when one of these blokes thinks it’s a riot to start flinging holy water.”

“It would take like a bathtub of holy water to do you in,” she whispered calmly, gaze firmly glued toward the front.

“Believe me, luv, all the good bits will be damaged long before that.”

Buffy chanced a sideways glance and caught Spike watching her with a small, knowing smirk. She rolled her eyes. “If the holy water wars start happening, I give you full permission to hide behind my skirts.”

Spike’s smirk turned completely devilish. “How about  _under_  your skirts?”

Someone behind them hissed a low, “Voulez-vous bien vous taire!” ( _Will you be quiet!_ ) and Spike uncaringly flipped them a two-fingered salute, earning him an outraged gasp.

Buffy groaned and hid her face in her gloved hands. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

Spike chuckled as he leaned next to her ear. “Need I remind you that you brought a demon to a place of god, pet?”

She lifted her head to glare at him. “So this is my fault?”

He waggled his brows at her, with a soft, “Of course, Slayer. But I know exactly how you can repent.” He curled his tongue behind his teeth for emphasis. As if she didn’t know exactly where his gutter-brain had gone.

She eyed her still-grinning vampire. Next year they were totally staying home. And they’d probably be naked. And since their bedroom had the largest fireplace, French Santa Claus would probably just get an eyeful if he came sliding down the chimney at midnight. Actually, Spike had mentioned that what people thought was Santa Claus was, in reality, just a creepy, old-looking demon. So, on second thought, if he did come down the chimney, they’d just kill him.

Okay, they were  _definitely_  staying home next Christmas eve.

 

***

 

_December 24, 2008: London_

Buffy sat curled in Spike’s lap on the large ottoman, sleepily waiting for the Sunnydale crew to arrive. She had been fighting sleep for the past hour, but was currently on the losing end of the battle. She was just so darn comfortable, and way too full from dinner. Her Bits knew how to cook far too well.

“Going to nod off on me, Slayer?”

Buffy mumbled what she hoped was some kind of disagreement, nuzzling into her husband’s neck. When he jostled her roughly on his lap, she groaned in annoyance and shifted slightly up. “I’m up, I’m up.”

Spike chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“We’ve been waiting for ages, Elly.”

“It’s a lot earlier there, luv,” Spike reminded her. “And the witches aren’t exactly moving at a solid clip at the moment.”

Buffy smiled against Spike’s comfy shoulder. Andrea had gotten him a ridiculously soft angora sweater last year and – if Buffy had it her way – he’d wear the damn thing year-round. “No, probably not.” She lifted her head slightly. “Should we call Dawn in?”

Her sister had decided to go to university in London, so the Delancey household was no more than a short underground ride away. The youngest Summers had, in fact, beaten them to the house for the holidays, since they’d gotten tied up dealing with malignant spirits in Budapest, and hadn’t arrived until last night.

“Nah,” Spike said, with a tolerant smile. “Think she and Rupes are having it out in the kitchen again.”

“Can you hear them from here?”

“Snippets.”

Buffy snorted. It turned out that a college-age Dawn was even more of a force to be reckoned with than teenage Dawn. She’d taken a shine to the field of ethics (with a focus in anthropology) and had decided she didn’t like the Council’s approach to cultural issues. Buffy greatly suspected Giles was considering relocating the Council headquarters to Scotland just to be somewhere that was not in the same city as Dawn Summers.

“Giles had better hire her when she graduates,” Buffy said in amusement.

“Don’t think he could get out of it if he tried. Point of fact–”

Buffy frowned when Spike’s voice cut off abruptly. “Elly?”

He nudged her gently on his lap, nodding in front of them, to the large empty space they’d cleared in the center of the living room. But, by the time she glanced over, it was far from empty.

Willow was looking back anxiously at the group of people behind her, her pregnancy-swollen belly making her ungainly and formidable. “Everyone’s okay? All ten fingers and toes?”

Faith looked at her incredulously. “If that’s a concern after all this time, Wil, I’m seriously revoking your witch license.”

Willow flushed. “Oh, no, I knew it would be all fine! It’s just,” she motioned to her stomach, “the pregnancy hormones are making my magic all woo and unpredictable.”

“Not helping, Wils,” Xander provided with a wincing smile.

“I like to be warned of potential maimings ahead of time,” Anya agreed in annoyance.

Tara shifted the young girl in her arms, resting her free hand on Willow’s anxious shoulder. “It’s fine. There wasn’t any danger. Wil is just feeling a little hyper-protective right now. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

Willow nodded sheepishly. “A little, I guess.” She turned abruptly, suddenly noticing a very amused Spike and Buffy. “Oh! Hi, guys.”

Buffy laughed, rising from Spike’s lap and wrapping Willow in a loose hug. “Hi, Wil. How are you?”

“Oh, you know. Feeling like a big red shiny cow, but I figure if I wear enough green, I’ll just turn into one big ball of Christmas-yness.”

The little girl in Tara’s arms giggled. “Silly mommy.”

Buffy smiled at the girl, Missy, aka, Themis Rosenberg-Maclay. Willow and Tara had named her after a Greek goddess Buffy had never heard of, but which made Spike smile when he was first told.

“Alright, Missy, come over to Uncle Xan and Aunt Anya,” Xander said abruptly, holding out his arms for the happy little girl. If Missy had ever noticed that she and “Uncle” Xander had the same hair color, she’d never mentioned it, but it probably wasn’t something she really got the significance of at two years old. To her, there was no reason she needed a dad at all, with two moms in picture.

But to Xander and Anya, it meant the world. It hadn’t apparently taken them more than a year after their marriage to learn that Anya couldn’t have children, which the ex-demon had taken hard. The revelation had, in fact, long waylaid Willow and Tara’s plan to ask Xander to be their sperm donor. To their surprise, when they finally braved the question, Anya burst into tears (the good kind).

“So, have you checked yet?” Buffy asked, looking down pointedly at her friend’s enlarged belly.

Willow and Tara exchanged mischievous looks and Xander sighed dramatically. “I’m going to be entirely surrounded by women.”

“Well, technically, honey, it’s all your fault,” Anya said absently, bouncing Missy in her arms.

Faith rolled her eyes good-naturedly and shoved her way in for a hug with her sister Slayer. “That’s why we stick to vamps, B. None of this getting knocked up sh–” She broke off at Tara’s throat clearing and grimaced. “Stuff.”

Buffy laughed. “Things still good with Lawson, I take it?”

“Still having fun, so it’s all good.” Her sister Slayer glanced around. “Watcher man around?”

“In the kitchen debating with Dawnie.”

“Sweet.” She gave Buffy a cheeky grin. “Better go in for the rescue, huh?”

“At your peril.”

“Always, sister mine.”

 

***

 

_December 24, 1942: Paris_

“I’m exhausted,” Buffy said numbly. Today had been the day from hell. Not literally, but as close as life could probably possibly ever come to it.

Because today they’d gone to Drancy.

The Jewish concentration camp was in one of the northeastern suburbs of Paris, a perfect mocking symbol and warning flag of the occupation. The Nazis had gone through the city in August and arrested over 4,000 Jews, leaving them in the merciless hands of the Gestapo until they were exported to worse death camps like Auschwitz or until they died.

Buffy wanted to raze the entire place to the ground.

And yet she’d done exactly as she was supposed to and simply given a guard a scrap of paper with key information about train times. If they were lucky, the trains in question would find themselves broken down in the middle of the countryside, and all the riders able to flee out and away.

If they were lucky.

Spike sighed from her side as they sat on one of the worktables in their basement headquarters. He laid a hand on her knee. “I know, luv. Get some sleep.”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight,” she whispered. Not when the sounds of children screaming as they were ripped from their mother’s arms were still echoing in her head.

Spike seemed to know exactly where her mind was. He slipped gracefully from the table, still a perfect predator even though he was far too thin and his face almost painfully gaunt, and strode toward the office area, where William and Rosie were bent over some blueprints.

They had a small LP player in the corner, which Albert had taken from one of their missions with determined purpose, and which seemed to be Spike’s destination. She watched him flick through their small stack of LPs before laying one down. A moment later, the crackling, tinkling piano sounds of Lucienne Boyer’s  _Parlez-Moi D’Amour_  ( _Tell Me That You Love Me_ ) echoed softly through the space.

Spike turned back to her with a hand held out. “Dance with me, luv?”

Buffy just stared at him for a moment, gazing wearily at his intent blue eyes. Then, with a helpless laugh, she retraced Spike’s path across the floor until she reached him. Her husband promptly whirled her into his arms, taking her up a slow, gentle path around the floor to Lucienne’s warbling, high voice.

Spike laid his forehead against hers, mouth a hairsbreadth from her own as he murmured the translated lyrics, never missing a beat as he guided her across the floor. “Tell me about love, oh, tell me again tender things. Your beautiful speech,” he whispered, “my heart never tires of hearing it, if you'll always tell me these supreme words...” He paused and looked deeply into her eyes, unblinking and unabashedly tender. “I love you.”

Buffy sighed and laid her head against his chest, letting the music and Spike’s firm body take her weight as he pushed them back into motion. “Elly?”

“Yes, luv?”

“I love you.”

 

***

 

_December 25, 1891: London_

“Auntie Liz, can I open this one first? Oh please, may I?”

Buffy smiled over her teacup at the eager little boy clutching his perfectly wrapped present (a circumstance that was almost completely Spike’s doing – she’d botched it horribly the first three tries. The paper in this era was thick and absurdly unwieldy. At least she’d managed a pretty fancy ribbon situation).

“Only if you do something for me first, Will,” she said conspiratorially.

William looked up at her with earnest brown eyes. “Anything, Auntie.”

“Anything’s a dangerous thing to be promising, Bit,” Spike drawled from next to her.

“A dangerous thing to promise  _you_ , William,” Charles corrected in amusement from the neighboring couch. “I believe there is far less concern with Miss Elizabeth.”

Spike grinned. “But that’s how she gets away with it, Charlie-boy. No one suspects my girl.”

“One of the few advantages of being female,” Helena agreed, deadpan, though her eyes were sparkling.

Buffy laughed, her attention remaining on the anxious five-year-old in front of her. “A kiss, Will, and then you can open your gift.”

With a delighted smile, William pressed a quick peck to her cheek and then sat reverently by Helena’s skirts and started methodically undoing the package wrapping, to Buffy’s amazement. There was no doubt she and Dawn had never been that careful. In her mom’s fond words, they were ‘hurricanes in the tropics’ when it came to gift unwrapping. Hank had usually just followed behind them with a garbage bag, trying to stay out of the way as he cleared the destruction.

“You can just rip it, Will.”

He looked up at her, shocked. “Oh, no, Auntie.” He glanced up at his mom’s lap, where Helena was bouncing Charlie. “Charlie likes to play with the ribbon.”

“And you’re keeping the paper.”

He ran a gentle finger down it. “I like it.”

Spike chuckled. “There’s still a prezzie in there yet, Niblet.”

William just smiled, eyes never leaving his careful project. “I know, Uncle. But if I open it too quickly, then it’s all over. And I like this part.”

Buffy looked at Spike in disbelief. “Please tell me you weren’t this put-together at five, because if so, whoa, did we regress in a hundred years.”

Her husband grinned. “Oh no, luv, I was a right hellion. Ripped the paper ‘til kingdom come.”

“Oh, thank god.”

 

***

 

_December 25, 1992: Belfast, Ireland_

“Merry Christmas, Mo-mo.”

Moira gave her a fond, if exasperated look, the crow’s feet wrinkling around her eyes as she stood in her open doorway, golden light spilling onto the porch. “Auntie, you’re the only one who still calls me that.”

“Your aunt claims I’m bloody stuck in my ways, but she’s loads worse,” Spike muttered, giving Moira a swift peck on the cheek. “Happy Christmas, Bit. Going to invite us in?”

Moira smiled and ushered them into her small cottage. After her husband’s death from a heart attack a couple years ago, their Bit had sold all of her assets and promptly moved to a small burg outside Belfast.

She motioned to the small spruce in her living room, looking slightly embarrassed. “It’s all I could do.” She paused, her hands shaking slightly. When she noticed Spike staring, she promptly hid them in her pockets. “You both didn’t have to come, I hope you know.”

“Rest of the family will survive without us for one holiday,” Spike said gruffly, sprawling across Moira’s couch like he didn’t have a care in the word. Or any respect for other people’s property.

Buffy rolled her eyes and shoved his legs off to make room for her. “There’s nowhere else we’d rather be. And we haven’t been to Ireland in years.”

Moira settled down into the chair opposite them, her lips pressed tightly together, as if she was afraid she might start crying. She wouldn’t, of course – there was way too much of the standard British reserve in her veins. Finally, she sniffed slightly and said, “Well, there’s not much, but there’s a spot of lamb, and I have Hannah’s mint jelly recipe.”

“It sounds fantastic, Mo,” Buffy murmured, chest tightening as she caught the dark shadows hiding beneath Moira’s eyes, peeking out from a failing layer of concealer.

“I’ll make us a spot of tea,” their Bit said quietly, in a fatigued voice, before disappearing into the kitchen. There was the clatter of a kettle on the stove.

“Hair’s not real,” Spike said softly, after a minute.

Buffy blinked, turning to him. “What?”

“Hair’s fake, luv. She’s wearing a wig.”

Buffy bit her lip. “Damnit.” She rubbed her temples wearily. “Can you smell it?”

Spike nodded almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the Christmas tree glowing in the center of the room, making his blue eyes flash with light. “Guessing she doesn’t have long.”

Buffy sighed and leaned back against his shoulder. “Well, I think our apartment can survive without us for a little while, don’t you?”

“Always has before, pet.”

 

***

 

_December 25, 2016: Sierra Madre de Oaxaca, Mexico_

“This is so not how I planned to spend Christmas this year,” Buffy growled as she ducked lowly to avoid one of the lizard demon’s spiked tails, grunting as she came down hard on one knee.

It was early evening in the Mexican mountainside and – although night out here was pitch black – a new full moon left them with light bright enough to cast shadows.

“Well, least it’s warm, pet,” Spike said jovially, grunting as a foot caught him square in the chest and threw him back into the rocky ground.

Beside them, Eva, the current Slayer, dodged the demon lizard’s gigantic maw, her dark hair snapping as she whirled. “Sorry, chica,” she said breathlessly, in her thick accent. “Wasn’t my plan, either.”

“How many of these things are there again?”

“Eight,” Eva provided, a small victorious sound escaping her as she managed to land a hard blow against the lizard’s side with her axe.

Buffy sighed, eyeing their surroundings briefly before rushing forward and vaulting onto the lizard’s back as it screamed in anger, nearly bucking her off.

“Careful, Slayer!” was Spike’s panicked bark.

Buffy threw him a tight grin as she raised her weapon – a massive red scythe the Sunnydale crew had uncovered several years back (which Faith had then bequeathed to her immortal sister in her will). “I’m always careful, Elly.” Then she brought the scythe down in a punishing blow on the back of the creature’s neck. It crumpled to the ground with startling speed and only Spike’s quick dash saved her from ending up crushed underneath the half-ton body.

He rolled them safely to the side, arms around her in a protective cage, eyes glinting amber in annoyance. “That wasn’t being bloody careful, you reckless bint.”

“Knew you’d catch me, William,” she said with a slight smile, kissing Spike soundly over his fangs, to his rumble of resignation.

Eva cleared her throat from a few feet away. “Sorry to interrupt, guys, but we have seven more to go.”

Buffy sighed before meeting Spike’s amber eyes. “Right. Ready, Elly?”

Spike rose gracefully to his feet, pulling her with him. “Always, luv.” A feral grin stole across his face. “Let’s go teach these beasties the meaning of Christmas.”

“Uh, isn’t that joy and forgiveness and gift-ness?”

“Brings us joy, doesn’t it? And death’s a gift, innit?”

Buffy snorted, hefting the scythe over her shoulder. “And the forgiveness part?”

“Well, I forgive them for interrupting our holiday, luv.” He quirked a brow at her, smirking. “How about you?”

“Forgive them? Never. This is the only time of year Ruth makes her cherry tarts.”

Spike chuckled and took her hand as Eva led them to the next lizard nesting spot. “Maybe we can convince her to make them for New Years.”

“Fingers crossed.”

 

***

 

_December 25, 1977: London_

“Oh, Elly. Oh god,” Buffy managed breathlessly, as Spike ran cool lips up her collarbone, licking and nipping as he went. Her legs were wrapped around his waist as he plunged into her mercilessly. Her fishnets were in complete tatters (thank god she’d remembered to pack an extra spare – well, ten of them, really – although chances were good that she’d still end up bare-legged on the way home), and Spike’s khaki trousers were down around his ankles.

“Bloody tease,” he muttered, giving her exposed nipple a hard bite with blunt teeth.

She moaned as he then licked the hurt away, unable to help a satisfied smile. In all fairness to him, she had been teasing him all dinner, panty-less, as she uncrossed her legs beneath the table in her short leather skirt. No one could see it there, but Spike had been able to smell her all meal. It hadn’t taken him more than two seconds after the plates were cleared to haul her away from their Bits.

Spike growled and thrust her harder against the bathroom door. Luckily, it was the bathroom at the far end of the house, so hopefully their activities weren’t entirely audible to the family.

Buffy felt her second orgasm approach and buried her fingers in Spike’s hair. It was so long now, a soft and curly light brown, and so identical to his original human hair that sometimes she couldn’t help but tease him.

“Oh, William,” she whispered huskily, “you naughty boy. What would your mother say, if she found you with me like this?” Not that Anne Pratt would have even recognized Buffy, at this point, with her pink hair and her dark make-up.

Her husband snorted laughter against her neck. “Well, if she didn’t keel over from the shock, pet, think she’d prolly just back away and shut the door.”

Buffy giggled against him, sliding her fingers down to dig into his shoulders. “Yay for Victorian repression.”

“Believe that’s called manners, luv. But I can see why you’d be confused, since you're not too familiar with the concept.” And then Spike nibbled on her earlobe before she could make a reply, twisting his hips in just the way to send her spiraling down and out of control. She gasped helplessly as her pussy clenched around him and pleasure jolted through her veins in warm, draining pulses.

“Oh-h.”

When she regained some control of her muscles and felt Spike smirking against her skin, Buffy huffed and bent her head, landing a swift, vicious bite over her husband’s siring marks. She’d been trying to write over them with her own teeth for decades, but the stupid vampire healed too well, particularly considering the constant influx of her blood. It didn’t keep her from trying.

Spike gave a deep, tortured groan and thrust into her with merciless force against the creaking door. A minute later he was shuddering against her with a breathless, “Buffy,” as he spent himself.

For a moment they simply rested there, Buffy wrapped around his torso, still impaled on his half-hard cock. She hummed in contentment, shifting slightly for comfort, and Spike growled as his erection swelled again inside her.

“Bloody hell, woman.”

She looked at him innocently. “I didn’t do a thing.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “You’re asking for it, sweetheart.”

“God, I hope so.” She frowned in sudden thought. “Think we have time for another round before dessert?”

Spike pulled her head down in a fierce, demanding kiss and spun them around so that her back was against the somewhat sturdier wall. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” He started thrusting into her again in earnest, filling her with almost painful ecstasy. “Going to enjoy my Christmas gift.”

Buffy leaned her head back slightly with a smile as she bounced up and down on his cock, arms wrapped around his neck. They’d long since stopped exchanging gifts with each other for the holidays because, after several decades, there wasn’t really anything left that they needed (and even fewer things that they wanted to keep lugging around the world). “I’m your gift, Elly?”

“Every year, luv. Every year.”

Buffy smiled lovingly at her husband, pressing a tender kiss to his lips as their hard rhythm gentled to smooth, unhurried intimacy. “You’re mine, too, William. Merry Christmas.”

Spike regarded her steadily, his face heavy with lust and love and contentment. “Happy Christmas, Buffy.”


End file.
